


if you let my soul out (it’ll come right back to you)

by ToAStranger



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse (brief), Fingerfucking, Frottage, Infidelity, Knotting, M/M, Rimming, Smoking the pain away, bare backing, drinking the pain away
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-11
Updated: 2015-02-11
Packaged: 2018-03-12 11:47:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3332228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToAStranger/pseuds/ToAStranger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles finally stops denying his husband's infidelity to himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	if you let my soul out (it’ll come right back to you)

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt fill and wayyy late Steter Week fill. 
> 
> Prompt: "Steter prompt(?): Derek cheats on Stiles with Chris whose cheating on Peter." (demios-itami)
> 
> Title and fic based on "Nitesky" by Robot Koch

He wakes an hour before dawn to an empty bed.  His jaw goes tight, palm pressing to cold sheets. The bed is too big without someone next to him.  Derek’s absence is heavy.

Sitting up slowly, Stiles feels his body ache.  He looks down at the silver band around his ring finger and his stomach rolls.  The sheets are pooled at his hips as he pulls his knees up to his chest; he is naked, unwanted, disgusted.  He doesn’t cry.

* * *

Peter comes knocking a few hours later.  Answering the door mussed, half-naked, and smelling like scotch, Stiles lets him in without batting a lash. 

The apartment is thrashed.  Peter watches, brows going up slow, as Stiles meanders back over to the dining room table where there are plates stacked high, crystal glasses in neat rows.  He pauses before the display, nose wrinkling as Stiles lights up a cigarette—the pack fresh and resting on one of the intricately worked chairs, ash burns lining the matching cherry wood dining set along the armrests and table top.  Stiles takes a long drag, holds it, and then breathes out smoke.

He plucks up a plate, tossing it back and forth between his hands with graceful fingers.  The cigarette dangles from his lips, and he throws the dish _hard_.  It spins like a frisbee before striking the opposing wall.  Peter frowns and Stiles whoops, holding his arms up before reaching for another plate.

“So you know,” Peter says.

Stiles doesn’t even look his way.  “That my husband is fucking your husband?  Or that yours is fucking mine?”

“Stiles—“ Another plate is thrown and shatters; Peter sighs.  “Stiles, when did you find out?”

“A while ago, probably.” Stiles shrugs, taking another drag and plucking up a tea plate, balancing it between deft fingers.  “Do you know how much money was spent on this stupid china set?”

Peter grimaces as Stiles launches it at the wall.

“A lot.”  Stiles says.  “And you know what it _fucking_ is?”

Shaking fingers set the cigarette on the table, embers scalding lacquered wood.  Stiles plucks up one plate, then two; he throws them hard.  They break on the wall, joining the mess scattered over the floors.

“Stiles—“

Another plate smashes, followed quickly by a wine glass.  Stiles lets out a ragged sound, angry.  Animal. 

“ _Stiles_ —“

“It’s a _fucking_ lie,” Stiles snaps, hefting up the stack of tea plates, hurling them to the ground at his feet.  “ _It’s a fucking_ —It’s a goddamned _sham_.  My _life_ is—“

“Stiles,” Peter says, voice low and firm.

Stiles’ breath hitches, hiccupping into trembling hands.  He leans back heavily against the table, eyes squeezing shut tight as everything jars, glasses toppling over.

Expression tight, Peter moves over slowly. Broken porcelain fractures further under his shoes.  He reaches out, taking Stiles gingerly by the arms.  Stiles looks up, eyes rimmed red, exhausted and miserable.

“I didn’t—“ Stiles sighs.  “Peter, I didn’t even want to get married.”

Peter’s lips thin.  There is a quiet moment, Stiles’ breath still calming, and Peter reaches around him to stamp out Stiles’ cigarette.

Winding his arm around Stiles’ waist, Peter plucks Stiles off of his feet—too bare to make it safely across the hardwood littered with broken shards on his own.  Stiles clutches clumsily at his shoulders, lets Peter carry him over to clear ground, and offers a weak smile once he’s placed gingerly back down.  Peter replies with a grin that is more of a grimace.

They guide each other over to a couch covered in down from the pillows Stiles had shredded at some point.  Sitting together, Stiles leans into Peter, heavy on booze—a half empty decanter balanced precariously on the edge of the coffee table.  Peter picks it up, sniffs at the mouth of the crystal and then takes a good, long pull.  Stiles watches, taking it from him after Peter’s swallowed, and downs a hefty swig of his own.

“There’s wolfsbane in that,” Peter notes.

“It’s Derek’s,” he spits and takes a bigger swallow.

Peter hums.  “I could eviscerate them both if you—“

Stiles gives him a dry look.

“Right,” Peter sighs.  “What would you like, then?”

“A good lawyer,” Stiles says.  “An even better fuck.”

Peter meets his gaze and nods.  “I can provide both.”

Stiles’ eyes flit, search over Peter’s features, desperate.  Peter takes Stiles’ left hand, thumbs at the wedding band on his ring finger, eyes lingering on it before meeting Stiles’ gaze again. 

“It wouldn’t make it any better, you and me fucking.” Stiles says.

“But it would feel good.”

Stiles frowns and Peter holds up both of his hands—a surrender that Stiles isn’t even sure he wants.  He watches Peter stand with pursed lips, eyes following his movements as Peter dusts off his pants, casual and unnecessarily nonchalant.  Stiles’ jaw twitches as Peter heads for the door.

Pushing to his feet, Stiles follows, and they hover at the threshold.  Peter turns to look at him, head tilting to catch Stiles’ eyes when the younger man keeps looking down.  Furtive, Stiles glances at the door and then back to Peter, tugging at his own fingers.  Peter raises an expectant brow.

“We’d be just like them,” Stiles says.

“Would we?”

“Yes,” he insists.

Peter rolls his shoulders, arms crossing over his chest as he grins, bemused.  “And that would be bad.”

“Yes,” Stiles nods once.  Firm.

“Stiles,” Peter smiles, and it’s sharp as he shuffles close; Stiles holds his ground.  “Might I remind you that I’m not a particularly _good_ man.  And I am _very_ fond of vengeance.”

Stiles bites the inside of his cheek.  “How long have you known?”

“Since it started, I think.  Chris is very sloppy at hiding scents.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Six months.”

Stiles grinds his teeth to keeps his lips from quivering.  “And you didn’t think to tell me--?”

“Better that you piece it together yourself,” Peter shrugs, “than have it look like I’m manipulating you.”

Stiles’ brow draw tight.  “Why would you?”

He laughs, slow and dark.  Peter’s gaze dips, dragging down to the low sling of Stiles’ jeans and up over the lithe lines of muscle at his abdomen, chest, shoulders. 

“It’s not obvious?” Peter hums, reaches out to let his fingers ghost along the soft skin at Stiles’ stomach just to see him quiver.  “They know—They both know that I’ve always been… fond of you.”

“Chris—“

“Knows that I love him and yet he’s fucking my nephew,” Peter says, tone sharp.  “And here we are.”

Stiles swallows.  “You want to—“

“I’d enjoy it.  Quite a bit.”  Peter nods.  “For more reasons than one.”

Stiles hesitates.  Then he steps into Peter’s space, arms draping around his shoulders, pulling him down into a slow kiss.  Peter slips one hand over Stiles’ waist, the other at his jaw to angle his head back.  Stiles moans.

* * *

Knuckles trace up along Stiles’ spine.  There is just enough pressure to coax his back into a slow, delicate arch downwards.  Behind him, he hears Peter hum, pleased, and then there are large, warm hands rubbing over the curve of his ass where his hips are canted back for Peter.  Stiles shudders heavily as thumbs dip between his cheeks and spread him.

Peter’s hands are surprisingly rough to the touch.  They feel good though, raking down Stiles’ thighs and guiding them to a more open position.  Warm palms ease back up over his hips, to his waist, fingers kneading at tight muscles as Peter’s hands drag over Stiles’ skin.  Peter pushes Stiles’ shoulders down, touch slow and guiding up his biceps, to his elbows, to his wrists.  He stretches Stiles out and up, body heavy against his back, the weight of him making Stiles tremble as his shoulders begin to strain.

Batting the pillows away from the top of the bed with a casual hand, Peter coaxes Stiles’ fingers around the slatted wood of the headboard.  Stiles is already panting faintly against soft sheets, the rub of their bodies leaving anticipation coiled low in his belly.  There is a wonderful rough burn between his shoulder blades when Peter trails kisses down from the base of his neck.

“Keep your hands there,” Peter says.  “Can you do that?”

“Yes,” Stiles breathes.

Peter hums, trailing back down to where Stiles’ ass is in the air.  He spreads him again, bites playfully at the pert curve of his butt, and chuckles when Stiles jerks.

“Does Derek ever do this for you?” Peter asks, thumb circling the tight ring of his entrance, pressure just hard enough to feel him twitch. 

“Once,” Stiles admits.

“And?”

Blushing, Stiles squirms as Peter’s tongue _presses_.  “It wasn’t very good.”

Peter tsks softly.  “That’s a damn shame.”

He eats him out for a long time, tongue unrelenting, mouth hot until Stiles is clutching at the headboard, knuckles white as he comes over the sheets in strips of sticky white.  Stiles shakes, huffing against the bedding as Peter gives him a second to catch his bearings, kissing sweetly over his lower back.

Then there are fingers.  Thick and long, slicked but warmed, pressing in slowly.  Stiles quivers, mewls, and strains back towards Peter’s touch.  Spasming around Peter’s fingers, Stiles gasps, sensation sparking up his spine as Peter curves to press just right.

“You’re so responsive,” Peter mutters, free hand guiding Stiles back by the hip.

“You—“ Stiles bites the inside of his cheek, squeezes his eyes shut, groan muffled as Peter plies him open.  “You don’t have to be so nice.”

“Would you rather I be rough?” Peter asks.

He earns a wondrous cry out of Stiles when he sinks a third finger into him.  Stiles scrambles slightly, breath sharp and short as Peter fucks him with his fingers, thrusts pointed and well-aimed.  His nails, blunt as they are, scrape against the wood of the headboard. 

The stretch-burn adds to the pleasure.  It is not quite pain, but it is acute enough to leave Stiles quaking, twitching around Peter’s fingers.  Stiles rocks back, grunts, and gasps as it earns him a smack over his bottom.  He stills except for his trembling, moans as Peter rubs over where he struck so suddenly, still pressing his fingers in steadily, paced and sure.

“Would you like me to treat you roughly, Stiles?” Peter asks again.

“I don’t—“ Stiles chokes on his own words.  “I don’t know.”

Peter hums.  “You don’t?”

“No,” Stiles gasps as Peter curves his fingers again, rubs over Stiles’ prostate until Stiles’ eyes roll back.

“Let me help you figure it out then,” Peter says lowly, darkly.  “If you want me to stop, say so.”

Stiles whines as Peter withdraws his fingers.  But then Peter is lining up, the head of his cock pressing in, and Stiles quivers.  The pressure is sinful as Peter eases inside of the hot clench of Stiles’ body.

Fingers flex at his hips.  Stiles is gasping, puffing hot little breaths, skin flush and sweat slick, and Peter praises him quietly for a moment.  Then he moves.

“ _Oh_ ,” the pace is not gentle; the headboard _thump-thump-thumping_ against the wall.  “ _Oh, fuck_.”

Peter chuckles, but it is strained and a touch breathless.  “You’re so perfect for me.  So hot, so needy.”

There is a sound like a sob; Stiles’ cock is weeping precome, bobbing between his spread legs.  “Fuck, Peter— _ahhh_ , _fuck_.”

“I know you’re already close,” Peter says.  “Come for me.  Come on my cock like a good boy.”

Stiles thinks he might go cross-eyed.  Peter fucks him through it, jerks in hard and deep as Stiles comes messily over the sheets again.  The grip at his hips goes tighter, and Peter grunts as he keeps driving in until Stiles is whimpering, whining on each sharp little breath.  He slow but does not stop.

Bit hands slide up Stiles’ sides again.  The thrusts go shallow in motion, but Peter is already deep inside of Stiles, deep enough to make Stiles feel heavy with Peter.  Fingers curl over his at the headboard, ease his grip there, and Peter kisses the shell of his ear.  Stiles groans.

“Let go, sweetheart.” He says.

Stiles does.  He lets Peter guide him up, and his breath goes reedy at the angle—balanced on his knees, sinking down impossibly further onto Peter’s hard length, back flush with Peter’s chest—shifts enough to make Stiles’ softening cock twitch.

Arms wrap over him. One across his chest, hand firm at his right shoulder to hold him steady.  Another over his waist, his stomach, to keep Stiles close.  Peter is still between the spread of his knees, still fucking up into him.  Stiles sobs, clutches at Peter’s wrists, and pants heavily with his jaw hanging loose.

Peter’s breath his heavy at his ear.  All heat, all fervor.  His movements do not waver.

“Has Derek ever done this to you?  Has he had you like this?” he asks.  “Has he ever fucked you stupid like I am now?”

“Peter, Peter, I _can’t_ —“ Stiles hiccups, but he’s already getting hard again, so overstimulated that sensation is bleeding together, the roughness of Peter’s thrusts leaving Stiles breathless.  “Peter, please, I can’t.”

“You can,” Peter assures, drives in sharply, earns a wanton cry—wavering, lilting, music to Peter’s ears—from Stiles’ parted, kiss-swollen lips.  “Talk to me, Stiles.  Has Derek ever had you like this?”

“ _No_ ,” Stiles gasps.  “No, never.”

Peter hums, kisses along his neck, palms running in soft, sweet contrast to the harsh thrust of his hips, mapping over Stiles’ skin.  “I would have you like this every day.  Make it so you never want to leave my bed again.”

Stiles keens.  “ _Peter_.”

He thrusts that much harder, fingers still gentle along the taut lines of muscle under Stiles’ flush skin.  “I love the sound of my name on your lips.”

Breath hitching, Stiles rocks back down onto him, impales himself back onto him, head lulling over Peter’s shoulder as he pants sweetly.  “ _Peterpeterpeter_.”

Peter curses.  He reaches down, wraps his fingers over Stiles’ length and pumps over him.  Stiles’ nails dig bluntly into his forearm.  Peter thrusts in time with the pace of his hand on Stiles’ cock. 

It is quick.  Stiles comes, moaning, and twitching helplessly in Peter’s hold.  Grunting, Peter drives in a few more times and then spills out deep into the heat of Stiles’ body.

Shaking and breathless, they hold one another, sweat slick.  Peter slumps back onto his own heels, brings Stiles with him, and practically cradles him.  Littering soft kisses over Stiles’ throat and shoulder, Peter quells him with languid touches.  They stay locked and lingering like that, Stiles in Peter’s lap, and Stiles blinks dazedly as Peter brings their messy hand up to lick some of Stiles’ spunk away from the tangle of their fingers.

Stiles groans.  “You’re crazy.”

“You already knew that,” Peter mutters.

Stiles laughs a little, only a touch hysteric.  “I suppose I did.”

Peter’s lips linger against Stiles’ cheek.  “Would you like me to stop?”

“No.”

“Would you like me to leave?” he asks.

“No.” Stiles shakes his head.  “Stay.  I can’t remember the last time someone held me while I slept.”

“Is that what you’d like?”

“Yes,” Stiles breathes, feels Peter’s arms tighten around him.  “Please.”

“Anything,” Peter assures.  “I’ll give you anything.  I won’t treat you like he does.”

Stiles lets his eyes close.

* * *

When Stiles wakes, his bed is empty.  His heart stammers and then settles when he catches the sound of the shower running. 

He smiles against soft pillows, sprawled out over the sheets.  Stretching, he groans at the wondrous ache in his bones.  There is still a note of smoke, of liquor lingering at the back of his mouth, but there is the musk of Peter there too.  He thinks, perhaps, it is what destruction tastes like.

Fingers flex, an odd tightness in his palms.  He glances up at the headboard and is surprised to find the wood there unmarked.  Reaching up, his fingertips brush over the cherry wood as though expecting to find his own thumbprints there.  He lifts himself up onto his elbows, laying on his stomach as he cants his head and purses his lips.

There is a rustle behind him.  Feet padding just heavy enough to be heard, and Stiles bites the inside of his cheek as he balances over his shoulder.  The towel around Peter’s hips is slung as low as the sheets at Stiles’.  It feels oddly erotic, looking at each other like this, half bared to one another—not completely the way they had been hours earlier, and not covered as they otherwise always have been when together.  Stiles likes the in-between of it.

“Would you like to join me?” Peter asks, smile lopsided and slow.

Stiles’ lips tingle.  “Where?”

“The shower,” Peter says.  “Unless you’d like to go someplace else?”

“Not yet,” Stiles breathes, twisting over to look at Peter more fully, propped on his elbows still.  “But I’m getting there.”

Peter’s smile broadens.  “The shower then.”

He turns, heads back to the bathroom, dropping his towel on the way.  Lingering in the mess of sheets, the smell of their coupling heady even to Stiles’ senses, Stiles admires Peter as he goes. 

By the time Stiles joins Peter in the shower, hot spray like a blessing on their skin and cascading over their shoulders, both he and Peter are hard simply from the anticipation.  Stiles steps close, kisses him, and moans when Peter deepens it instantly.  He ends up pinned to the titles, Peter’s body weighty against his, and they rut together until they cannot anymore.  Until they come, panting into each other’s mouths, high on the heat and the taste of one another.

Stiles clutches at Peter’s neck and shoulder, still rocking against Peter’s thigh and hip in the aftershocks as Peter mouths along Stiles’ throat.  “Derek’s never knotted me.”

The groan Peter gives thrums along Stiles’ nerves.  Long, thick fingers slip between Stiles’ ass cheeks, slicked by water; pressing at his entrance in tease until Stiles is quivering.

“I know he can,” Stiles breathes, nails biting, grunting as Peter’s fingers ease in.  “But he won’t.”

“Do you want him to?” Peter asks, kissing along Stiles’ jaw.

“No.  I did.  I don’t want him to now.”  Stiles shudders, moans as Peter presses his fingers deep, kisses him for a long and lingering moment.  “Now I want _you_ to.”

Peter falters, arm draped heavy at Stiles’ waist going tight.  He kisses him hard, breathless, only pulls away when Stiles whines at the pull in his lungs.  Breaking apart just enough to see Stiles’ expression, Peter watches Stiles with vivid blue eyes as he fucks him with his fingers in steady, sharp thrusts.  His gaze flits over Stiles’ features, sees the sweet ecstasy that has Stiles squirming in his hold, and works him up until Stiles is coming again, twitching so hot and tight around his fingers.

When Stiles goes lax, Peter just sinks a third finger into him.  Stiles mewls, head falling back against the tile wall, eyes going heavy lidded as he arches.

“You want me to knot you?” Peter asks.

“Yes,” Stiles nods, hapless.  “ _Yes_.”

“Want me to pump you full, mark you up, make you _mine_?” Peter adds, voice rough and low, fingers moving pointedly.

Stiles’ eyes roll back briefly.  “ _Please_.”

“Say it,” Peter rumbles, nose pressing to Stiles’ temple, words hot in his ear.  “Tell me.”

“Knot me, Peter.  Steal me.” Stiles pants.  “ _Make me yours_.”

* * *

Stiles can’t stop shaking.  He’s pliant in Peter’s lap, head resting back on his shoulder as they sit back against the headboard.  Peter noses beneath his ear, palms flat and warm against Stiles’ skin.  Fingers tangled with Peter’s, Stiles hums and lets Peter guide gentle touches over his sides, his chest, his abdomen.

Spread wide, thighs over Peter’s opened thighs, tight around the swell of the base of Peter’s cock, Stiles trembles.  One of Peter’s hands, still tangled with Stiles’, wraps around Stiles’ half hard length.  Stiles grunt, squirms, eyes roll back as Peter’s knot tugs and then sinks deeper.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Stiles huffs in small breaths.  “I’ve already come my brains out, Peter.”

Peter chuckles, squeezing at the base of him, earning a sugary little keen.  “I like feeling you come on my knot.”

“ _Peterrr_ ,” Stiles whines as Peter ruts up, arching in his hold. 

“One more time?” Peter asks, hand not at Stiles’ cock pressing firmly to Stiles’ lower belly; Stiles hiccups on his breath, on his moan, writhing.  “Then I’ll come in you again?  Fill you up some more?”

Stiles mewl, then nods.  “Yes.  Okay.  _Yes_.”

He feels Peter’s smile press to his skin.

* * *

“Did you make me coffee?” Stiles mumbles, rubbing at his eyes as he pads into the kitchen.

“Yes, I did.” Peter says, handing him a mug, taking the time to admire the way his shirt hangs on Stiles’ shoulders.

Cradling it between his palms, Stiles watches Peter move towards the stove.  He spots the skillet there, the eggs and bacon waiting to be cooked.  Biting the inside of his lips, he leans—a bit stiffly—against the counter’s edge.

“Breakfast for dinner?” Stiles asks.

“My mother always said that as long as the sun is up, breakfast is the only choice.”  Peter grins over his shoulder at him.  “Likely due to the fact that she only knew how to make breakfast foods.  She burnt everything else.  Plus, I always crave bacon after good sex.”

Stiles’ brow goes up, smile a bit smug.  “Just good?”

“Better than I’ve had in a very, very long time.” Peter corrects, moving back close and kissing Stiles soundly.

Stiles hums.  It lingers for a moment, long enough for Stiles to feel it in his toes.

They part again.  Stiles’ eyes roam over the broad slope of Peter’s shoulders, down his bare back, to the waistband of Peter’s jeans.  His fingers itch; he’s surprised how at ease he feels in nothing but Peter’s shirt.

Sipping at his coffee, Stiles moans.  Peter glances over at him, brow up, and Stiles lifts his mug a bit.

“You know how I take it,” Stiles says.

“Bit of crème, too much sugar.” Peter nods.

Stiles smiles into his drink.  “ _Gods_.  Just run away with me already.”

Peter pauses.

Ears burning, Stiles shifts from foot to foot.  “I mean—“

“I’ll hear the lie if you try and take that back,” Peter warns.

Stiles clears his throat.  “It’s stupid.”

“It isn’t,” Peter shakes his head, faces him, but leave the space there between them.  “Tell me what you want, Stiles.”

His lips thin.  “Peter—“

“I told you I wouldn’t treat you like he does,” Peter says, holding up a hand when Stiles opens his mouth.  “And if you’re going to ask why, it’s because I want to.  And frankly, you deserve better.  _I_ deserve better.  Tell me what you want, and I’ll give it to you.”

Stiles takes a slow breath.  “To run away.  Get out of town, not come back—at least not for a while.”

“And?”

“And to bring you with me,” Stiles says quietly.

Peter inhales sharply, deeply.  “I’ve never knotted Chris.  He has never asked me to.”

“And?” Stiles shakes his head, sets his mug down, bracing himself back against the counter.  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I have never wanted to knot him,” Peter says.

Stiles lets the statement hang, swallowing thickly, his fingers flexing against the edge of the countertop.  “But you wanted to with me?”

“Yes,” Peter nods.  “I’d do it again, right now, if I thought your body could handle it.”

Stiles shudders; licks his lips.  “I’m sore, not broken.”

Peter crosses the space between them in a quick stride, scooping Stiles up and depositing him on the counter.  “Ask me.”

“Run away with me?” Stiles grins, a bit cheeky, arms draping over Peter’s shoulders as he spread his legs to make space for him there.  “I’ll even let you knot me from time to time.”

Peter’s hands run up the back of the black cotton shirt, tracing up Stiles’ spine as it curves under his touch.  “Bribing me?”

“Is it working?”

“Yes.”

“Good.  Now kiss me and then run away with me.”  Stiles says, fingers tangling into Peter’s hair, already leaning in.

Peter slants their lips together easily.

* * *

The loft is trashed when Derek gets home.  It is rank; the smell of cigarette ash, liquor, and sex hanging in the air.  There is Stiles’ scent, heady and sweet, and then there is Peter’s.  It is sharp, tangy; it leaves a foul taste on Derek’s tongue. 

Stiles’ heartbeat is missing.  Many of his things too.  Derek’s eyes go red.

He calls Chris first.  Finds out that Peter had come and gone an hour or so previous, had packed up a suitcase, left his wedding band on the coffee table, and was out the door without another word.  Chris had tried to follow, but Peter’s words were barbed and true.  He’d been ashamed enough to just let Peter leave.

Derek calls Stiles’ cellphone next.  It goes straight to voicemail.

“ _Hey, this is Stiles.  I’m going off the radar for a while—so only leave a message if it’s an emergency and your name isn’t Derek Hale.  Thanks!_ ”

Derek’s grip goes so tight on his phone that the screen cracks.  Even though the static of the line, he can hear Peter chuckling in the background of the recording.

* * *

“Peter?”

“Hm.”

Stiles’ left hand rests over where Peter is gripping the stick shift loosely, bereft of his wedding ring.  “Thanks.”

Peter grins, leaning in and kissing his cheek.  “You’re very welcome.”


End file.
